


Carried By The Current (The Grieving Freely Remix)

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, for:joe_pike_junior, remixredux09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-26
Updated: 2009-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From what Foreman has seen of House in the last few months, he's stopped swimming against the current.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carried By The Current (The Grieving Freely Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArmchairElvis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmchairElvis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Jump in the Stream](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1963) by ArmchairElvis. 



> This is a remix of joe_pike_junior's [Jump In The Stream](http://joe-pike-junior.livejournal.com/187638.html). Thank you to thedeadparrot, troutkitty, shutterbug_12, roga, and topaz_eyes for the betas.

**PART ONE**

House is the cooler king.

_Boom-thock. Boom-thock. Boom-thock._

Ten feet to one side, a four-storey drop to the pavement. Ten feet to the other, Nazi guards patrol the hall. Ten feet in front of him, the Limeys are plotting an escape that's bound to fail. House is in for seven days on strict rations of stale chips and bad coffee. He's wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and what the hell, the same as the day before. Sweat-stiff. Stubble itches. Leg hurts. So what else is new?

_Boom-thock. Boom-thock. Boom-thock._

His throwing arm's numb, but House manages to hit the glass on every toss and catch the ball on the bounce. The Kommandant came in this morning and tried to distract him with the plunge of her cleavage. Every _boom-thock_ made her twitch. She shouted about lawsuits or maybe the reversibility of tenure, but House drifted on the rise and fall of the lecture, playing Steve McQueen. _Boom-thock, boom-thock, boom-thock_: he'll never collaborate.

The other inmates are getting restless. They don't know it's hopeless yet. Tom's caved in, Dick and Harry will be discovered, and soon they'll all be thrown in front of a firing squad. If they do get out, it's three weeks to unoccupied France, longer to neutral Switzerland. In the meantime, there's a motorcycle out there somewhere with House's name on it. The moment he charges for the barbed wire and takes flight spreads out in his mind's eye.

He can almost feel the machine gun bullets after that.

_Boom-thock, boom-thock, boom-thock._

The fantasy is pointless. Why bother with the great escape? He's the cooler king and at least on the inside he knows what to expect. Ball in hand, then released, then caught. _Boom-thock_, another tic in Foreman's jaw. _Boom-thock_, another flinch on Thirteen's face. Kutner blinks on the _boom_, widens his eyes on the _thock_. Taub stares flatly through the glass. Pity and _must you?_ are written in the slump of his shoulders.

_Boom-thock_, and House isn't _think_ing, _boom-thock_, there's nothing but the cooler king, _boom-thock_, he'll only ever see the ball. _Boom--_

Thwack.

Foreman wrenched the door open as House threw. The ball hits Foreman's palm instead of ricocheting back to House. Foreman's face is thunderous. House notices it, in a distant sort of way.

"The patient's dying."

House nods. Sure. They're all dying. Some of them are already dead. He frowns, looks away.

"He attacked Thirteen."

That's mildly interesting. House dredges up a joke, something about mud-wrestling, or maybe Jell-O, or maybe Thirteen's karma, or maybe just the fact that she's dying too, so the patient might as well take her with him. He tells it to Foreman in a slow series of blinks and adds the punchline with a shrug. Foreman doesn't get it. If he does, he doesn't laugh.

"House, we need you out there."

Foreman must be desperate. House supposes he'll look bad if the patient dies. He lifts his eyebrows. "Give me my ball back," he says. His voice scratches from disuse.

Foreman's fury has always been interesting to see. House doesn't care about provoking it, but now that he has, it makes for a good spectator sport. Foreman's eyes widen, his lips tighten, a muscle moves in his jaw. He squeezes the ball so hard that House wonders if it'll pop. House half-expects a punch. Doesn't bother with evasive maneuvers yet.

Foreman takes three steps and yanks the balcony door open. Without missing a beat, he launches the ball like a center-fielder desperate to stop the run on third. House watches it sail out over the parking lot, loses it in the sun when it falls. When Foreman walks back into the office, smoothing his suit, his glare could chip ice. House approves of the way Foreman clearly doesn't care that he might have hit someone or knocked out a headlight.

"The patient's prepped for dialysis," Foreman says. It's practically a threat.

The fantasy couldn't last. The case is a distraction.

House is disappointed when the answer comes.

***

Fall arrives in a swirl of clear, windy days. The leaves turn brittle on the trees, fading to a disappointed green. House is watching the wind tug at the branches while he calls his mom at a time he's certain she's not home. "I can't come," he tells the answering machine. He pauses, lifts his glass to his lips, and doesn't make much effort to sound sincere when he adds, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't move from the couch when Cuddy barges into the apartment three hours later. The living room is stuffy and dim, and the autumn-smoky air that rushes in with her is as unwelcome as she is. It's hardly the first time, but if Cuddy wants to waste her life taking care of him, that's her business. House doesn't try to stop her. She nags about rehabilitation; House shakes his bottle of Vicodin at her. Some part of his brain catalogues her visits, calculates when annoyance will become ritual, irritation turn to comfort. That will take longer than Cuddy's persistence will last. House isn't worth her patience anyway, so it doesn't matter.

"Do you realize how many people your mother had to call before she got to me?"

Not many, House thinks. There aren't that many phone numbers for her to try. "I'm not going."

"House, he was your father--"

House presses his lips together and doesn't bother to correct her.

"Your mother wants you there." Cuddy's voice stays soft long enough for her _caring_ to cloy like molasses, but, thank Christ, it disappears a second later. "For God's sake, House, you need to get out of your apartment for more than the work you don't do!"

"And a funeral's just the thing to put that skip back in my step." House levels a glare at her. It's his father--or not--and his business. His mother will be disappointed. It's nothing new and nothing she hasn't gotten over before. "So he's dead. It fucking happens, Cuddy."

Cuddy takes a breath, and House knows she's preparing to summon a ghost before the name even passes her lips. "Wilson--"

House snaps before she can truly get started. "You mean the nagging influence that I was sure I'd escaped?"

Cuddy's face hardens, her jaw sets, and her eyes are more blue than House can remember. She's never cried in front of him and that's the only reason House still tolerates her random, harassing visits. House is certain that he could stop her once with just a glare, make her stop short and back down. The fact that he can't, this time, makes what she says even harder to ignore. She doesn't sound angry. Resigned, maybe, and bitter. "Wilson would have wanted you to go."

House stares at her for a second longer, then deliberately turns away. Wilson would have wanted him to go, but he didn't have all the available facts. Stacy understood, but she'd still stuff him into a suit and drag him on a four-day trip to watch a body whose cells share none of his DNA get lowered into the ground.

Cuddy lets out a short breath, as if she somehow expected better of him, and he's disappointed her. "If you don't go, I'll drug you and have you dragged."

House snorts. She wouldn't; the legal ramifications alone would stop her cold. But what does he care? It's a few days out of his apartment, a few days when she won't be nagging him to take a case, to get to the clinic, to do _anything, for God's sake, House_. He could save himself hours of hassling for the price of an hour in the presence of people who think his father was worth the fuss. At least the threat is worth responding to. "As much as you might get off on seeing me hog-tied and tortured," he says, "you don't have the balls to go through with it." One glance at her face confirms that he's right. "You feel guilty just from suggesting it."

"You're going, House. For your mother's sake, at the very least."

Strange how 'her sake' involves him being 'comforted' by his father's underlings, who thought it was an honour to spit-shine the man's boots. "You're going to send me driving for four days? With my leg? Three months after a skull fracture?"

"Hardly," Cuddy says, and eyes him one last time before heading for the door. House would respect her threats if Cuddy had any intention of following through. She has nothing compared to Wilson's haranguing skills. This conversation is over.

House reaches for the remote and fights to slip back into nothing.

***

House ignores the pounding on his front door. It's too loud to be Cuddy and there's no one else who could possibly care enough to keep up that racket. House debates between struggling to the bathroom and finding an empty mug under the crap on the coffee table. The morphine syringe clinked to the floor and the rubber tubing unwound from his bicep sometime while he was sleeping. He supposes some day he'll aspirate on his own vomit, but there are worse ways to go.

"House! Get your ass out here before I wake up your super to give me a key."

Foreman. Impressive. He managed five minutes before the first threat. And this time, unlike Cuddy's kidnapping bluff, House nearly believes him. Not quite. Waking the super at ass-o'clock in the morning to get a key for House's apartment probably qualifies as too much humiliation. He'll give up and leave.

He doesn't. Fucking annoying. House gathers himself from the couch and goes to the door--slowly, even though Foreman's not likely to give up once he's put in this much effort--and opens it, leaning against the jamb. "What the hell do you want?"

"To be asleep, and nowhere near you," Foreman shoots back. "Let's go."

"What'd you do, kill another patient and get Cuddy to hush it up?" Foreman's a quitter, and he'll walk away if House pushes hard enough. House doesn't care if he hurts Foreman's iddle feelings in the process. He's simply speeding the inevitable. "You don't give a shit about me _or_ family funerals."

Foreman takes a breath, an 'I am more patient than this' breath. House is an obstacle to him, a pest. He sneers at Foreman's long-suffering look. "The difference between us, House, is that I care about my family. You obviously don't, or Cuddy wouldn't ask me to haul you to Kentucky."

House straightens slightly at the hint of challenge. Four years isn't enough to immunize anyone against House when he's actually trying. "Oh, you care about your family? Like your crack-dealing brother? I can tell from all the visits and cards." House lets more of his weight fall against the door jamb. This might actually reach amusement levels if Foreman cooperates. "Don't be such a hypocrite, Foreman. You haven't been home in nine years. I doubt you'll even go to the service once your mother kicks it."

"Get in the car," Foreman says. His voice is already tighter. Jesus, it's just too easy. House opens his mouth, but Foreman gives one sharp shake of his head and _yanks_ on House's arm. It pulls him away from the doorframe and House stumbles, once, stepping hard on his right foot. Pain digs in deep, tunneling from his knee to his hip. Foreman blows past him, into the apartment. Disappears down the hall. Into House's bedroom. House grips his thigh. He can't follow, but he shouts, "Hypocrite _again_, Foreman. Privacy's only important when it's _yours_?"

Five minutes later Foreman comes back out. There's a bag from House's closet over his shoulder, and he's clearly rummaged as much as he's going to on House's behalf. He pushes House again, this time until he's out of the apartment, and slams the door behind him. "You're going. You can insult me the entire time or you can shut up and deal with the fact that he's dead."

House wants to punch him in his smug, sanctimonious face, but Foreman could stop him if he tried. Chase might drop after one punch and not even try to retaliate, but Foreman's been building up to this anger longer. Foreman wouldn't hesitate to physically wrestle him into the car.

He's not going to win this standoff. A wave of inertia slams through him, suddenly enough that House feels helpless in front of it. It aches, in a deeper way than his leg, and House swallows it down, refusing to show it. Foreman only sees the mission, the ruler-straight there-and-back-again. House isn't going to explain himself, not as much as it would take for Foreman to leave him the fuck alone.

"Get my jacket," he says, his last stab at control. He limps out to Foreman's car without waiting to see if he obeys. There's a second pill bottle in it, in addition to the ones he's already got in his jeans pocket. They'll last him long enough. House can't imagine spending four days in Foreman's company without the pills' hazy comfort. Cuddy couldn't have done worse in picking someone to drag him across half the goddamn country. Foreman has to be laughing at him.

The leather seats in Foreman's mint-condition Lexus are already warm. House pulls the lever and reclines back. He wants to heap one insult after another on Foreman, tell him exactly what each of his problems are, but the heat under his leg works better than it should. House dry-swallows a pill, then another one. Foreman tosses House's bag into his trunk. When he starts the car, classical jazz comes over the speakers. If House lets himself think about it, he'll be following the piano part in his mind, improvising. He refuses to listen.

Foreman doesn't say a word. House has nothing to grab hold of. Nothing to attack. Thirty minutes later they're on the highway. House downs another pill, this time from the Percocet bottle in his jacket. And another one, when Foreman barely glances at him, makes no sign.

House clings to wakefulness, pushing against the dozy heat of too many pills. Part of him wants to bore into Foreman's mind with his stare and find out what the hell he's thinking. There's only Foreman's blank face, which is almost interesting. That he can be quiet for this long. That he agreed to do this at all. Foreman couldn't possibly see any benefit from driving House anywhere. It isn't his job. House hasn't, and never will, help his so-precious career. There's no reason for him to be here.

House rubs his thumb over the handle of his cane, chasing down any possible rationalization. Foreman's behaviour is actually worth mulling over, and the puzzle distracts him until the pills and the heat blur the world into a hazy dream.

***

House dreams in flickers of light and dark, like living in a heartbeat. The blinding constriction, then the bloodrush of memories.

A line of beer bottles in front of him. Empty glasses. The bartender's curled lip when he cuts House off.

Speed dial's a wonder for drunks everywhere. If House's voice comes out a whine, he's so far gone that he can't hear himself beg.

_Boom-thock_.

House swings out of the bar, too drunk to have a care for his leg, too drunk to care about where he's going, but not quite drunk enough to forget why he was getting drunk in the first place. The bus arrives in a swim of headlights, and House boosts himself aboard.

He collapses into a seat and rests his temple against the wet, cool glass of the window. The bus is about to pull away from the curb.

Then the doors wheeze open one last time.

_Boom-thock_.

Wilson swings into a seat next to him. A frown draws his eyebrows together. His mouth tightens with impatience. "House, what do you need before you'll tell me what your problem with Amber is?"

If House shakes his head, he'll probably puke, so he gives no sign at all. He watches the bus driver climbs the steps, helping a woman board. The world attenuates, dims.

_Boom-thock_.

House sees the garbage truck coming. The crash is a moment of time, malleable. If he could only reach it.

Chase tried to help him. Find the moment. Find that _second_. If he sees it, he can change it, but he falls out of the memory blind. He wishes, so fucking much, that he was deaf as well.

"House, I'm not letting you walk away from this. I'm not leaving."

_Boom_.

***

House startles awake, a choked sound rising in his throat. His leg jerks as he tries to sit up, and at least the slicing pain that follows is familiar. House blinks, gulping air, and then sees Foreman.

Foreman's glance slides away from him and back to the road. He shoulder-checks as he merges off the interstate. "I'm stopping for gas."

He saw House sleeping. Probably heard it, if House let out any words. _Bastard_.

Foreman pulls into a rest stop, one of two dozen that line this stretch of the interstate. Dust greys the air, grits on the pitted asphalt. Mack trucks and tankers rumble past, or let out sick accordion wheezes of soot and exhaust as they brake. Brand names and billboards loom over the line of gas stations. Every fast food place that could be squeezed into the acres of parking lot is wafting out the sickening smell of hot grease.

Foreman stops at a gas pump and switches the car off. He stands up smoothly, and House hates him just a little more. He's stiff, his back aches, and he has to lift his leg sideways when he shifts to climb out of the car.

House feels shaky, yet despite the pain, still halfway stoned. He paces beside the car until he feels steadier. Apparently Foreman will lower himself enough to pump his own gas. Anyone else might have said _You okay?_ after House woke up, but Foreman managed to keep his mouth shut. The last thing House will do is thank him for it. Foreman thinks he's House's babysitter. All he wants is to get this Cuddy-imposed duty over with. If he doesn't talk, it's because he'd rather be anywhere else, with anyone else. Well, fuck him. So would House.

He turns away from Foreman and stalks to the convenience store. Borrows their bathroom key, pisses, washes his hands, and comes back to find Foreman browsing the drink cooler. He picks some pansy all-organic juice that probably tastes like cow burps. House fills a Super Big Gulp with Orange Crush slurpee and thrusts it at the clerk when Foreman goes to pay, and Foreman barely rolls his eyes before paying for it.

House takes another Percocet before they leave, downing it with a brain-freezing rush of sugary orange ice. The world weighs down on him, oppressive as the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. The air's too heavy in his lungs. House blinks and the highway spins. "Stop the car," he says. "I'm going to puke."

Foreman glares at him but he pulls over.

House scrabbles the door open and heaves into the ditch, half-digested pills slipping out in the ropy strings of fluid. The vomit is orange and sweet for less than a second before narcotic bitterness surges overtop. House wants to puke forever, until the bile scrubs the taste of the pills from his throat.

***

House's stomach churns for the rest of the drive. He closes his eyes and leans against the window, but he's too sick to fall asleep, and he doesn't want Foreman watching him or listening if he dreams again. House fights down the nausea and the hopeless feeling of memory; the more he tries to push his thoughts away, the more he finds himself helplessly _thinking_.

When he called Wilson, it was with a sense of mean satisfaction. He smirks, mouth loose from alcohol, when he heard Amber's voice snapping in the background. Through the laughable muffle of Wilson's hand, House hears him making soothing sounds. Amber would never fall for _it's just this once_, and she's contemptuous of _it's just House_, so he doesn't know what Wilson finally says to yank his balls free of her grip. House takes a celebratory swallow of whatever's in his glass when he hears Wilson's sigh, and tells him the name of the bar.

House doesn't remember the interval as more than a warm blur. A feeling like laughter catches in his chest. It's not that he's happy. He's _justified_. Right. Always right about Wilson. House tips his glass at the bartender, showing that it's empty, and he barely cares that the bartender fixes him with a glare and shakes his head.

He sees Wilson in the mirror behind the alcohol bottles before Wilson catches sight of him slumped on his stool. Wilson's dressed down, in a green polo shirt and khakis. His hair sticks up in tufts, as if House's call rolled him out of bed--or as if Amber ran her fingers through it and grabbed when she pulled him into a kiss to remind him why he'd be an idiot if he didn't come straight home. "Why the hell am I here, House?"

House twists around on his stool to face Wilson, a sneer on his face. He'll let the anger drop as soon as Wilson stops acting like House is _forcing_ him to have fun. "Wild guess: you found the keys to her cuffs."

Wilson rolls his eyes and won't meet House's. He stares around the bar for a moment as if he's never seen one. "No, you got lucky. Amber has a shift tonight."

He finally looks at House, and in an instant House regrets every drink. He wants to be completely sober when he demands _What if she didn't have a shift? You'd have told me to get a cab? Left me here?_ Wilson wouldn't. House might have to be more persuasive but he'd have Wilson sprinting for his car if House said he needed him. But he doesn't. Wilson comes running of his own accord. 'No' is a word he barely has a passing acquaintance with. Amber hasn't changed that because Wilson doesn't want or need to change. House frowns down into his glass and snaps, "Luck would be a mute cabbie."

"Seriously, House. You couldn't do this at home?"

"All by my lonesome? That anxious to get out your label maker and stamp 'alcoholic' on my forehead?"

Wilson's mouth flattens. "Getting drunk on a Wednesday night for no apparent reason? Calling me at one in the morning to pick you up? You don't make it easy, House."

House's mouth tastes bitter, as if he's already through the drunk and well into tomorrow's hangover. "If I'm so _difficult_, then why _are_ you here?"

"I wanted to be sure you were safe." Wilson's eyes turn soft, like a faithful collie's. House grunts, prepared to be mollified, but Wilson's mouth quirks and he lets out a small scoff of laughter. "Amber agreed, by the way. She offered to come herself and let me sleep, but I didn't want you to make her late for work."

With a sharp shove, House pushes his empty glass away. The alcohol has left his skin heated, his biting anger too close to the surface. He slides, one-legged, off his stool, straightening slowly. His fist closes on nothing in his pocket before he remembers that the bartender snatched his keys from him when he tried to leave an hour ago.

Wilson blinks, his mouth falling open. "That's it, isn't it? You wanted me to...what? Get away from Amber? For two hours, in the middle of the night, because I had to pick you up?"

House doesn't even attempt a shrug that might throw off his balance. Wilson's words make it sound even more pathetic than he already knew it was. House takes out his wallet and tries to remember how to count.

Wilson drops his question--probably assumes he's right, and he is; they both know it--and goes back to shaking his head. House almost wonders if he called Wilson's _mother_ by accident. "How many drinks did you _have_?"

"Not nearly enough, since you're still that unattractive."

Another sigh. House hates those fucking sighs. "I'm asking the bartender."

"Great." House throws what cash he has on the bar, one twenty soaking up the wet circles of condensation left by his glass. "Have a wonderful chat. Tell him how great your life is going, I'm sure it'll make a change for him." House stumbles a step and catches himself against the bar before he remembers to grab his cane.

"House, wait--"

He focuses on the door across the room, forcing it to stay steady even through the rolling gait of his limp. Wilson's enough of a sucker to pay his bill. House pushes the door open and gets _out_, into the neon blue night. The bus stops in front of the bar, which is a damn good thing, because House isn't sure he could have made it farther. He sits on the bench and rests his forehead on the handle of his cane, his breath rasping in his throat. The air tastes like cigarettes and clots of garbage.

A minute later Wilson sits down next to House with a sigh. It feels like the two of them are alone in a deserted city, no matter that there are horns and sirens and yells from the bar behind them. "If you have a problem with Amber, then why don't you tell me?" Wilson sounds like he's trying to under_stand_, with an edge underneath as if _he's_ the long-suffering one. "You never had a problem telling me Bonnie and Julie's every flaw."

From the beginning, House spread out Amber's flaws out and thought them over. House doesn't have to warn Wilson that _she'll try to renovate your house in pink in five years_ or _you'll leave her once she isn't helpless_. Amber's abrasive, she's pushy, and she wants Wilson to be happy. House isn't even certain that he can manage that last one. Why would Wilson want to escape? He's been running _toward_ that kind of misery for the last twelve years. And Amber isn't crippled. She's young; she probably takes yoga; she's probably _flexible_. House can't name a flaw that doesn't exist.

Wilson _is_ happy. Before, House's intervention was about helping along the inevitable. Now if he interferes, Wilson won't be wrong to call him the problem. Even if Wilson does break up with Amber, he won't want to crash on House's couch afterward. He'll be sick of being pushed. He'll want 'perfect' again. He'll want...Cuddy, want to give her all the babies she can have, want to tie himself down to a life that fits him like an expensive Hallowe'en mask.

"There's got to be a reason," Wilson says. House anchors himself to Wilson's voice. He still hasn't looked up. "House, as long as I've known you, even when the reason's _stupid_, you always have one."

What's House supposed to tell him? He's not better than Amber. He's certainly not easier to live with. Wilson walked out on living with House--doesn't matter that House pushed him to it--and Wilson jumped into living with Amber in under a month. Maybe it's the sex that makes it worth staying.

_You're sleeping with me_. Except he isn't. So why shouldn't House go out and get drunk? Take Wilson on the nights when he belongs to House and get _him_ drunk.

House has already implied he wouldn't interfere. He tamps down the memory of Wilson's stupid smile. _Are you being...self-sacrificing?_ Jesus Christ, that was the last thing he was saying, but why expect Wilson to hear that?

House sacrificed Wilson. The idea of Wilson. He can't have more, so he'll cut up that idea, burn it before he buries it. If he forgets, sometimes, or if he goes out drinking _in order_ to forget, then it's not his fault that he dials Wilson's number when he needs a ride.

The bus pulls up in front of them in a wheeze of exhaust. House climbs to his feet and leans hard on his cane as he gets on. Maybe, one of these times, Wilson will see what House has really given up. Until he notices, House will keep walking away.

***

House wakes up again as they're pulling into a motel parking lot. Foreman climbs out of the car and heads for the office. House stays slumped in his seat. He assumes Cuddy is compensating Foreman for whatever he spends. Maybe there's even an expense account. He could find out by ordering pay-per-view porn on Foreman's credit card.

The room Foreman parks in front of is the usual shade of depressing, with bland carpeting and garish print bedspreads meant to hide telltale stains. House drops his jacket next to the door and claims the nearest bed, stretching out on his back and closing his eyes. He's not tired; he slept most of the day in the car. But his back feels tight as a vise from sitting so long, and his leg's bitching too. He doesn't care what Foreman does. And if Foreman keeps acting how he was all day, he'd be grateful if House decides to sleep for the next forty years.

He hears Foreman pick up his jacket. The neat-freak probably can't stand that House let it fall. But a second after the first rustle, House hears the rattle of his pill bottle. The Percocet. His eyes snap open and he watches Foreman stride to the bathroom. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I didn't think you were stupid enough to take enough of these to make you vomit," Foreman says. He twists the cap off and upends the vial over the toilet, an avalanche of little plops. House tenses, thinks about fighting, but there's no point. No fucking point. It's already too late to launch himself off the bed and grab them before Foreman flushes, and he still has his Vicodin in his pants pocket. Foreman's not going anywhere near there. "You thought wrong," he says. He picks up the remote and turns on the television, channel-surfs through five stations of nothing, nothing, nothing. Foreman sits at the foot of the other bed, staring with him. Like they're watching TV together at the end of the day. Like they're friends.

House stabs the power button and throws the remote down, glaring at the back of Foreman's head. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Foreman glances over his shoulder. After a day of driving, his shoulders are just a hint slouched, as if even he can't keep that steel rod up his ass every waking minute. "Somebody had to," he says.

"That's not an answer," House says. "Especially from you." Unless Cuddy really is blackmailing him. He tries to think with what, but Foreman's such a fucking bore, what could there possibly be?

"You think no one cares about you," Foreman says, with mind-fucking calmness.

It's a dirty tactic. House _knows_ no one cares, even if Cuddy tries to prove him wrong occasionally. She's not here. She wouldn't leave her hospital for him. She hauled in his _employee_ to cart him around using threats or bribes. House doesn't know which, but he'll find out eventually.

House wishes he had some snappy comeback, but if Foreman's going to talk about _caring_, then it's better if he tunes out. After he'd pulled every abdominal muscle he had, until he was dry-heaving out the open car door on the edge of the freeway, Foreman dragged him back into the car by his scruff. Foreman's hand was cool and firm against his sweaty back. It pressed there for a moment before Foreman grabbed his shirt to haul him in. House feels claustrophobic, caught in the same room with Foreman. He wants to be dizzy and nauseous in peace, without Foreman's interference. Foreman hasn't earned the right to see House this way, and worse, he doesn't even know that he doesn't deserve to be here. Foreman knows House resents him, but he'll never know how deeply he's not welcome and not wanted.

After a minute, Foreman picks up the phone and orders a pizza. He doesn't ask House what he wants, but House doesn't care. Pizza is pizza. Foreman pays for it when it comes and sets the box on House's bed. He turns the television back on and House stuffs his face and doesn't complain while Foreman watches the news and the sports highlights. Afterward, Foreman goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and piss--the walls are so thin House can map every activity by sound--and when he comes out, he's stripped down to a pair of navy blue boxers.

House blinks and slides his eyes away. His tongue wants to trip over itself to insult Foreman and demand what the hell he thinks he's doing. He dams it up, because it's obvious; Foreman's acting like House isn't here, like House isn't even significant enough to change his routine. This is probably how Foreman always sleeps, unless he's wearing his shorts as his one concession to modesty. They're not cotton, of course. That would be too easy. They look like silk, sleek and glossy. Undoubtedly softer than the low-rent motel sheets against Foreman's skin.

House isn't going to let Foreman one-up him. He takes his turn in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet while he hauls off his jeans and his button-down. He brushes his teeth knowing that Foreman can hear every motion. He wants to ignore his bladder, because Foreman can probably diagnose rocky kidneys and an uncertain prostate through the fucking door, but it's not worth holding back when Foreman's pretending House isn't even there. When he opens the door, Foreman's under the sheets, lying on his side and facing away from House. House snaps the light off and eases into his own too-hard bed. Twenty minutes later he's still staring at the ceiling.

Foreman's asleep. House eyes him, tries sleeping to the rhythm of Foreman's breath--God, even Foreman's _breathing_ is boring. He doesn't snore loudly enough to make it worthwhile to prod him awake; he doesn't have the uneven, halting respiration of sleep apnea. It's in, out, in, out, in two-four time. If House was even the slightest bit sleepy, he knows he could drop off to the sound. It's been years since he slept in the same room with someone, but the soft even draw of breath in the dark is familiar enough that he thinks of Stacy, and then hates Foreman even more for bringing her up.

He turns in bed until his leg aches, arranging and rearranging the squashed-flat pillow between his knees, then gives up and switches on the television. He keeps it low--if Foreman wakes up, he'll bitch and moan, and House is too tired to argue. There's nothing on but infomercials and the porn listings. House gets up and paces in front of them, his cane hitting the same dents in the ugly piss-brown carpet with each circuit of the room. There's no way in hell he's going to order porn when Foreman might wake up and catch him with his hand in his pants.

On one turn, his cane knocks against the television stand. Foreman rolls to his back, flinging one arm out, but he doesn't wake up. House thinks of filling the ice bucket with warm water and hanging Foreman's hand in it, but as soon as the idea comes he dismisses it. They're not _buddies_, this isn't a frat house prank war. Besides, House doesn't want to wake Foreman up, or for him to see House sleepless and bored in the middle of the night. And, House realizes, there's a line somewhere in there. If he made Foreman piss himself, Foreman would never forgive him. It's a stupid fucking line, one House would love to leap right over, to humiliate Foreman and then laugh in his face as spitefully as he knows how, but he doesn't. He shouldn't care about lines. He shouldn't care about Foreman's self-important feelings. He paces faster, his hand starting to sweat against the handle of his cane. Foreman's left before. When he can't stand to be around House anymore, he _leaves_. He quits and he leaves. Given a choice, Foreman would never have come back.

House doesn't need Foreman's forgiveness, but he's tired of his hate, too. For lack of _anything_ to do, House plays with the thermostat, lowering the temperature and then cranking it up.

The day Foreman admitted he was happy being back felt like forgiveness, and it pissed House off. Foreman was _deigning_ to be happy around him. Dismissing House from his consideration; being happy _despite_ him. Foreman gave up--Foreman _always_ gives up--taking risks, doing important work. Gave up and settled for being House's lackey and Cuddy's brownnosing spy. House's _keeper_.

Foreman being here means nothing. To prove it, House picks up the ice-bucket and his cane, limps a hundred feet along the row of motel-room doors in his t-shirt and shorts to the ice-machine alcove. He uses the little metal scoop to shovel the bucket full, and then brings it back to the room.

He opens the door. The heaters are going full blast, and it's hot enough to be stifling. Foreman has kicked at the sheets until they're coiled around his legs. He's lying on his stomach half-naked. His shoulders are heavy with muscle, his broad back tapering down to his waist. House watches his back rise and fall, follows the line of his spine with his eyes down to the curve of Foreman's ass under the damn silk boxers. And then, with a disgusted snort, House dumps the bucket of ice down Foreman's back.

Foreman rears up with a shout, but his legs are so tangled in the sheets that he trips himself and tumbles over the side of the bed, hitting the floor with a _thump_. House holds back the loud, braying laugh that rises in his throat, but he can't stop his lips from twitching into a smirk when Foreman scrambles off the floor. He's shivering, goosebumps standing out on his chest and arms, and he looks ready to murder House and then string up his corpse. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

House thinks, _I'm bored. I can't watch porn with you here. I can't stand watching you sleep._

What he says, voice rough and angry, is, "You flushed my pills."

That's all the excuse he needs.

***

House pauses before climbing out of the car in front of his parents' house. His mom's house. It's where John House chose to retire, close to his last posting, and House supposes it's nice enough for a suburb of an Army-proud small town. Every single one of those things makes House cringe. The grass is neat. Chrysanthemums bloom in the flowerbeds under the veranda. House waits on the sidewalk until his mom opens the door and comes to meet him. House keeps an eye on the door, almost expecting his father to follow her, nodding a greeting from the door instead of coming down the steps. Mom reaches him and takes his hand. "I'm so glad you came."

"Hi, Mom," he says, leaning down to hug her. He's been taller than her since he was fourteen, and the light pressure of her arms around his back is familiar.

"I'm so sorry about James," she whispers into his ear.

House bristles and jerks back from the hug. His mom refuses to drop her gaze. Her eyes are damp. House turns his shoulder to her. Foreman's still standing on the driver's side of the car, waiting for a hint, or maybe hoping he can disappear. House was thinking of treating him like a chauffeur at best, a piece of luggage at worst. Instead he gestures him over with a shrug. "Mom, this is Foreman."

Foreman comes forward awkwardly. He offers a hand to shake, and Mom takes it in both of hers, holding it for a moment. "Eric," Foreman offers uncomfortably. House supposes he's caught between acting like a guest and acting like House's minder, but Mom smiles and nods and invites them both in. Foreman leaves the bags. Wilson would have struggled under their weight and cheerfully denied that he couldn't handle them all in one load. Wilson would already be making small talk, about the weather or the flowers or the difficulty of keeping up a house like this, making House's mom glow and his dad grunt agreement. Foreman's useless here.

They're barely inside before House feels himself tensing. The house is full of men in uniform, all of them stiff and upright, all of them coming forward one at a time to give him tight, jerking handshakes and to meet his eyes when they tell him they're sorry for his loss.

Not his loss. His mom's, he supposes, although when House sees Conrad Ellis among them, he doubts even that. She's probably already been comforted enough.

House wrenches himself free of misdirected compassion after the fifth handshake. Foreman's out of sight. House ducks past the kitchen, filled with mourning casseroles and bereavement cheese plates. He finds Foreman in the back study, reading a back issue of _JAMA_.

"How many of those did you bring?" House asks.

Foreman lets the journal fall to his lap and gives House a suspicious look. "Three," he says.

"Then you won't need this one." House snatches it from his hands and sits his ass on the other end of the couch, flipping past the editorial, looking for an article that's not too mind-breakingly dull to read.

"Aren't you going to help your mother?"

Wilson would be sighing, standing over House with his fists on his hips. Wilson might actually say the right thing. House looks up long enough to quell Foreman with a glare. "Aren't you going to help yours? Oh, yeah, you can't."

Foreman stiffens, and House feels a wild, vicious thrill. Maybe this time he's done it, and Foreman will fucking _react_. Even in the middle of a wake. Yell, make a scene. _Come on, Foreman,_ House thinks, staring him down, but Foreman just hauls out a second issue of _JAMA_ and snaps it open.

House sneers, and opens his own, letting his chin drop to his chest as he prepares to ignore everything and everyone around him.

When his mom calls him, House realizes he's been reading next to Foreman--they even exchanged issues after House sighed loudly one too many times after finishing his--for at least an hour, and all the other guests have been too-politely told to scram.

Mom pulls Foreman close when they're about to leave for the church, and House can just imagine what she says to him. _Take care of him_. Foreman's smile is polite at best. He likes to cover his ass and walk away from his messes; House knows he'll forget any promise he makes.

***

During the service, House is trapped in the front pew, his tie strangling him, his shoulder pressed tight against his mom's on one side and some commanding officer of his father's on the other. Aunt Sarah, on Mom's other side, presses tissues into her hand, her warm soft palm covering Mom's knuckles and pats when the minister says something particularly sentimental. Sarah's handholding is a relief. She's teary enough for all of them. House won't be expected to hug and cry his way through this waste of time.

Mom smiles up at him when the minister mentions _John's son_. As if Conrad Ellis isn't sitting three rows back. House shakes his head when his mom leans close to ask if he has any words he'd like to say. He's long since calculated the schedule of his father's leaves, the frequency of his mother's smiles, and it wasn't hard to come up with answers. There's plenty he'd like to say but nothing his mom would like to hear.

House fixes his scowl on the middle distance where none of the words can touch him. He itches inside his suit. Foreman grabbed it, and a tie, in five minutes alone with House's closet. Wilson would have insisted on a garment bag and an iron, but Foreman simply threw everything into a sports bag. The other clothes he picked--jeans, t-shirts, a button-down--were the ones House had tossed on his bedroom floor and were at least approaching clean. He must have swept the contents of House's medicine cabinet into the bag, because while House found everything he needed, it was all scattered among the clothes. There was lint on his toothbrush and toothpaste on one of his shirts.

House wants to open Foreman up and rearrange whatever clockwork he's got inside. He can't tell if Foreman doesn't care, or if he acted in the only way he knew House would allow. The former is believable, but the latter fits the facts in a disturbingly playful way; House's brain insists on testing theories against the evidence. Why the blue shirt instead of white? Why the navy suit instead of the black? Why is Foreman _here_?

When the minister invites the family members to leave first, House stands up and walks blindly down the aisle. Foreman sits in the last pew, impassive as usual. House's gaze sweeps over him and then flinches away when their eyes meet for a flickering second.

House stays silent during the drive to the cemetery. Mom asks the driver quietly to bring them as close to the gravesite as he possibly can, and House clenches back the bitter knowledge that it still won't be close enough. Walking along the so-scenic path, his cane digs into the rain-soft turf and sends him stumbling, stepping faster than he'd like just to stay on his feet.

They bury a man who was no relation to House. Maybe blank anger looks the same as grief. His mom won't mention it if it doesn't.

Afterward, Ellis comes up to him. House remembers the man holding his sneakered foot and tying his shoelace over and over again. House was a sucker then, whispering the little rhyme Ellis used while he practiced, eagerly showing off his first sloppy knots to his mom. "Thank you, Conrad," his mom said, the next time she saw him, and House thought her smile was because of him. That there wouldn't be any need for Ellis to hang around once House could tie his own laces.

There isn't any need for Ellis to be here at all, but he slings a heavy arm around House's shoulders and leans close; they're the same height to an inch. "Listen, son--"

An incredulous scoff bursts out of House's throat. "You're actually calling me that?" he asks.

Ellis' expression sharpens. His eyes are a clear, reflective hazel, but House knows there's a recessive blue underlying the phenotype. "What are you talking about?"

House doesn't care that this man cuckolded his so-called father. It's no business of his. It's a lie, one more to add to the heap.

Ellis studies him for a moment, and then, more cautiously, he continues. "I want you to know that your father was a good man. He'll be missed."

"Don't patronize me," House says. He shrugs out from under Ellis' arm and steps away. "You're the last person who'll miss him."

"I--"

"You made her happy," House says. "Don't pretend you ever did anything for me." An arm around his shoulders, a beefy grip--his dad should be the one serving up these idiotic platitudes. His dad shouldn't have died. He should be _here_. Stiff and uncomfortable in his expectations; unsatisfied with House and nudging him to do better, be better. _Stop indulging your damn self-pity, Greg. You want to be miserable for the rest of your life? Nobody's willing to stick around for this crap forever. You ever ask Stacy if this wasn't too much? You ever ask James how much he's willing to put up with?_

House twists away. Escapes. He stumbles over the uneven ground, out of balance, out of breath. His dad would have served up the same phony comfort at Wilson's funeral, as if he could understand. _Look at me when I'm talking to you, Greg_. That manly clap on his shoulder, that heavy gravity in his father's stare when House, sullen, finally meets his eyes. _He was a good man. He'll be missed._

Foreman falls into step behind him when House heads for the car. He keeps House's snail pace as if neither of them can manage more. "Who was that?" he asks.

Wilson would know. House would tell him the story in half-lies, in all the hints and clues he's dropped into twelve years of conversations. Foreman is _no one_. No one at all. House spits, "Some guy who used to hang around when my father was deployed."

From the look on Foreman's face, he gets it. House wants more than anything for Foreman to _disappear_. He wasn't cryptic enough, and now Foreman knows. House supposes _his_ father never stepped out on his mother. That his family had a happy fucking life. One more reason to laugh. One more reason to point at House and tell himself he's better. House waits for the smug chuckle, the self-satisfied eyebrow raise, Foreman's _judgment_.

But Foreman doesn't say a word.

***

House was the first one to recognize the heap of unclaimed clothes. The jacket, the khaki pants, the green polo shirt. Dark with blood and ripped clear up the center with trauma-room scissors. House stalked across the ER, his mind aching with a memory he couldn't _reach_\--a symptom, a sign. He dragged his team into diagnosing the bus driver with an urgency so frantic that he couldn't _place_ it.

He doesn't care about the fucking bus driver. But when he stops and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, as if he can fuse his temporal bone together with that pressure alone, he squeezes his eyes shut and _almost_ knows what he's missing, _nearly_ catches the whirling images and forces them to stay still long enough for him to study them. But he can't. Everything's hidden behind red-and-blue strobes, the lights of the police cruisers and ambulances.

The hospital band cuffing his wrist insists that Foreman's his doctor, but House won't believe it until Foreman has the balls to sedate him and put in full restraints. Foreman's not even trying to stop him. He's reading off a chart, his footsteps echoing House's as House chases down the bus driver's symptoms. House stops short at the pile of clothes and Foreman, through practice or some instinct, stops as well. "Whose are those?" House asks, his hand rising without his bidding to rub at his forehead.

"There were too many traumas for us," Foreman says. "Twelve went to Princeton General. The triage team sent all the personal effects here."

Bile burns in House's throat. The shirt. The pants. His mind's an underground ocean, the surface dark as a mirror, and House is too scared shitless to drag the memory out into the light. "Take me there."

"What?" Foreman screws up his face in a confused frown and then sighs in exasperation, setting the chart down. "House, the major traumas went there, it was closer. No one's going to be conscious to answer your stupid questions about whether the bus driver limped."

House shakes his head. Vertigo slams through him. Foreman's suddenly next to him, one hand steady on his elbow, his face swimming in House's pulsing vision. "House, you have a skull fracture. You're not going anywhere. I'll call--"

House shoves away from him. "And what? Ask them if they have a John Doe in their morgue?"

"A John--"

"Those are Wilson's clothes." House stabs a finger towards them blindly, his other hand covering his eyes to block out the goddamn lights.

"He was _with_ you? And you didn't--"

"I didn't re_mem_ber!" House whirls on him, keeps his stomach contents down by an act of will. Foreman's not usually this dense. "There were half a dozen people in that crash who might pass for Wilson on a bad description. Let's _go_."

Foreman's eyes widen, shift over House's face as he studies him. A second later his expression firms. "I'll go. I'll see--"

"And if he's dead, what? Come back and console me? We need to fucking _go_ there, Foreman."

Foreman stares at him evenly, long enough that House is about to push past him and drive himself--he's managed to stay awake and alert this long--but then Foreman seems to deflate, and he nods. "All right. Wait for me out front."

House isn't sure he could have walked farther. He's still upright when Foreman pulls up in front of the clinic. He nearly falls into the passenger seat, fumbles with his seatbelt for what feels like too long.

"Keep your eyes open for me," Foreman says.

"I _know_," House says, his voice rasping and barely raised. "Stop being a neurologist."

"Then stop being an asshole," Foreman snaps back. He faces straight ahead, eyes on the road, but House is reassured that he can't stop Foreman from being a doctor. Foreman's probably banking on the fact that after the skull fracture, House won't remember this conversation. He's not a moron. If House blacks out, he'll be there.

Foreman's driving is smooth but probably faster than House realizes. The lights of Princeton General's ER rise in front of them, and Foreman pulls into the emergency care lot. He's out of the car and at the passenger side door before House can stand up. He doesn't offer to help, but House grabs Foreman's arm and uses him as a second prop to pull himself up.

When Foreman tries to walk to the doors at House's pace, though, House snaps, "What the hell are you waiting for? _Go_."

Foreman casts one last glance at him, but then he's gone, striding ahead of House. He's learned not to wait in line, to cheat and steal and take first place. He'll have information by the time House makes it to the doors. And if he collapses out here, Foreman can send a trauma team for him.

When he gets inside, Foreman's shouting down a nurse, the way he should. He yanks the chart out of her hand--she's making some threat about security but House can tell she won't go through with it. Foreman checks the room number, and then he's leading the way again, opening the door before House reaches it.

House stops long enough to swallow, to breathe, to close his eyes and fucking _hate_ Wilson for doing this to him, before he goes in the door. Foreman's already standing there, watching him, but he could be a lump, a piece of furniture, for all House notices him or cares.

The person lying on the bed isn't Wilson, not at first. He's an unconscious, intubated patient. A ventilator fills his chest and then lets it fall, breathing for him in robotic gasps. A unit of O-negative hangs next to a morphine drip and an IV for fluids. Wilson's type. There are fresh dressings on his abdomen. His head is bandaged over burr holes meant to relieve a subdural hematoma. A line of tentative, awkward, student's sutures bite shut a cut on his forearm. Someone more experienced closed the long slice over one cheekbone that stopped just short of his eye. Scrapes and bruises mottle his arms, his chest, swell around his eyes and behind his ears. His lip is cut and swollen. One purple lump puffs up over his left temple. He's brachycardic and hypotensive. House takes in his vitals with some detached part of himself that says, _Dead._

Foreman has his chart. House flicks a glance over his face and reads the same message there. This isn't fixable.

Details start to show through the trauma, then. Wilson's skin is sallow. The tips of his hair are pasted damply against his forehead where they peek out from under the bandages. His hands are, strangely, the most recognizable part of him. They're whole, hardly bruised, fingers soft from pushing paper all his life. House steps closer, staring down at Wilson's face, as if he might open his eyes. "What does the chart say?"

"Upper left quadrant wound, passed through his hepatic artery, leading to internal hemorrhage. He was impaled on something. The bleeding in his brain is from blunt force trauma."

House nods. The life support equipment carries on, but the room is empty. No team of surgeons and nurses working frantically, calling for drugs and rushing Wilson to the OR. The EEG is isoelectric--that's all the answer either of them need.

"House, I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." There's nothing combative in the words. House grips the railing of the hospital bed. It's cool under his palm. "Turn off the machines."

Foreman stares at him. "What?"

The room is a world away, too distant for anything House does or says to make a difference. He lifts his cane and slams it against the side of the bed with a _crack_. "Turn off the _fucking_ machines."

"House, you don't--"

"He's a vegetable. They're keeping him fresh for organ donation."

Foreman shakes his head slightly. "House," he says. "I could go." He's trying to be _delicate_, as if House is the dying patient, as if he needs a slow and careful explanation to know exactly what's going on here. "You could say something."

House wants to smash through Foreman's so-sorry sadness act. He doesn't have the right to tell House how he feels. "What, have a touching farewell scene? Hold his hand and cry over him because there's _nothing_ I can do? Keep him on life support as if there's a chance he'll wake up? Who would that be for? Him or me?"

"For Amber," Foreman says. "Don't make this decision for her, House."

House isn't going to watch that. He doesn't even know where she is. Wilson said--Wilson told him. She's working. Night shift. Foreman might be able to track her down. She'd let out a cry, seeing Wilson. Rush to him. Curl up next to him, kiss his cut lip, brushing her mouth over his as softly as she can, wail and hold him and beg him not to die. What the fuck would that accomplish? Why the fuck would House want to watch that?

"Get out," he says.

"House, I brought you here, but I'm not going to stand by while you kill him."

House lifts his eyes to meet Foreman's, determined to burn away the first hint of pity he sees. Foreman thinks his precious ethics are more important than what's right. Thinks a four-month girlfriend is more important than House is. House doesn't care about who should watch Wilson die, but Foreman's lying to himself if he thinks turning off the vent now would be killing him. House jerks open a drawer on the cart an orderly has left in the room. Takes an amp of atropine out and fills a syringe. He pushes one milligram into Wilson's IV and they both turn to the heart monitor. There isn't even a flicker. Wilson stays brachycardic; the atropine had nothing to act on and the brain stem's dead. "Now," House says. "Get the fuck out of this room." He expects Foreman to ring the nurses' station, ask them to bring security in. Keep House out of Wilson's death the way he's out of Wilson's life.

"You're hurting her for spite," Foreman says. "That's all this is, House." His glare is contemptuous, but it's not pitying, and nothing else matters. Foreman turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

House limps around the hospital bed. If Wilson did wake up, there's nothing House could say. _I killed you. You're dead because of me._ And there's nothing Wilson would say to him that wouldn't be a lie. The last thing Wilson said to House was already a lie, and House can take that a lot better than he can take Wilson's deathbed platitudes.

He turns off the monitor first so that the beep won't bring someone running. He stops the meds and the fluids. Then the ventilator. Then he simply watches until the peaks on the monitor waver, hesitate, and finally wash away into flatline.

***

**PART TWO**

All House wants, sometimes, is a good _argument_. It doesn't have to make sense. In fact, it's better if it doesn't. He wants the sort of conversation that can meander through a dozen subjects and never have to mean anything.

He's half-asleep in the passenger seat of a car. The streetlights ebb and flow over his closed eyelids. Christ, he wants it to be Wilson driving him home. Wilson just a little drunk, more than he should be to drive, but more sober than House. Tipsy enough that a stupid, silly grin shows at the corners of his mouth. Laughing when House tries to call him on having a woman hitting on him in the bar. She ignored his embarrassed, flustered replies. Ignored House altogether, despite his helpful interjections.

"She wasn't trying to _hit_ on me, House."

House rolls his head against the window, feels a smile spill out of hiding. "You moron. You must not want to go home and get laid."

Wilson's mouth twitches with humour. His shakes his head and concentrates a little too obviously on the road. He'd better hope they're not pulled over. "I'm a gentleman, House."

_Then why have you kissed and told so many times_, House thinks. There's no reason why Wilson should be here with him instead of sliding between the sheets of some bar-girl's bed. There's no reason he shouldn't smooth his hand up her stomach to cup her breast as he lowers his mouth to tease her nipple. "You're an idiot," House mumbles.

"I think we should change the subject," Wilson says, with all his put-upon dignity.

"Jesus," House says, and he can feel the alcohol moving through his veins so easily it could almost be happiness he's feeling. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you, Spiderman could shit on Superman."

And Wilson laughs--that soft low chuckle that tells House that this is happening. Wilson's laugh will make this _right_. This argument and these words. House will go home, stumble to bed, imagine Wilson with that girl while he beats off into the sheets. Too drunk to come, frustrated at his own hard-on, he'll only be able to promise himself he'll finish in the morning.

But Wilson doesn't laugh, and House slumps further against the passenger window. Wilson's not here. He knows that. It's not some delusion, some dream. He's just drunk. He vaguely hears Foreman answer him--pointless answer, not even good enough to answer back.

_You're an idiot_, he thinks. He nods to himself. The words fit, and he repeats them. _You're such a fucking moron_. Wilson's not here. There's nothing else to say.

***

He starts paging Foreman for no reason at all.

He pages Foreman to the clinic for invented consults. To the cafeteria to buy his lunch. To the parking lot to take him _away_ from the cafeteria and buy him lunch. To investigate the bug in his box of rasinettes--"It's a raisinette, House."

There must be a moment when Foreman stops _showing up_. Cuddy threw House into his company, and at work, he's always _there_, sitting back to cross his arms and shoot out his big-mouthed corrections about what House can and can't do. House doesn't let Foreman's pretensions to authority get in his way, Foreman gets pissed off. Foreman's not offering more and House isn't asking. The circle of life.

But Foreman keeps appearing, as if House's 911 means he's actually on the roof ready to jump, was the victim of a hit-and-run in the parking lot, stopped to tie his shoes during the running of the bulls. Foreman doesn't rush, but five or ten minutes later he's always _there_.

House can't bring himself to try outside of work. He doesn't know what he'd _do_ if Foreman showed up at his apartment, sleepless and furious with no reason House can easily bring to mind beyond, "I left the remote on _that_ side of the couch."

There are limits. House doesn't like them, but when he goes to break them, he thinks about the moment when Foreman _won't_ come. Testing him at work is enough for now.

He's stretched out in his chair behind his desk when Foreman walks into the office. House tips his head back to stare incredulously at the ceiling, and barks, "Why the hell are you here?"

Foreman might be the soul of repressed violence, but he keeps his voice short and to the point. "You paged me."

"I paged you twenty times today!"

"I know."

House rolls his eyes, wants to yell _Don't you have anything better to do!_ Except maybe Foreman does, and he'll realize it. Worse, maybe he _doesn't_. Maybe humouring House has become Foreman's job, and he puts in his nine-to-five answering pointless pages because the pay doesn't suck. "Go away," House tells him.

Foreman quirks an eyebrow, lets out an amused breath that means he thinks he's won, and goes. The second he's out of sight, House aches to page him again, because Foreman's patience has to run out, sooner rather than later, and House needs to _know_.

He finds out a few days later. Not because Foreman stops showing up, but because Cuddy storms into his office and slaps down the consent form for a brain biopsy. "How did you ever get your patient to sign this?"

House glances at the form, fluttering to the surface of his desk, and then goes back to Ducati Moto on his DS. "She was dying. Strangely, it wasn't hard." House sent Taub in to be matter-of-fact, followed that up with Thirteen for the _I know what it's like_ touch, wrapping up with Kutner for sympathy. Afterward, Foreman yelled at all of them and called House a manipulative bastard, but he was only angry because for once House hadn't paged him.

"You could have found this information with an MRI--"

"Machine was busy."

"Or a _CSF culture_, House!"

Running a culture would have taken twenty-four hours. Maybe there were other places to look for an infection mimicking a tumour than right in the middle of the girl's grey matter, but House was following the lure of a theory. Something about her parents running a petting zoo around the same time she'd had a nasty case of the flu seven years ago. House was actually excited about the chance to dig into her brain and prove he was _right_. Which, it should come as no surprise to anyone, he was. "Isn't this yesterday's harangue? It's neurobrucellosis. We're treating her."

"House, this isn't about last time. _Any_ of the last times. This is about next time, when you might _kill_ someone when there were other avenues to the same diagnosis!"

House turns off his DS and tosses it on his desk. Cuddy's outfit complements her eyes perfectly. He supposes now isn't the time to tell her, even though it interests him more than a recycled diagnostics safety lecture. "You're getting slow," he said. "Watchdog not reporting faithfully?"

"Foreman told me this morning." The corners of Cuddy's mouth crimp down, her eyes soften. One day soon she's going to bring up Wilson again. "I notice you conned Chase into performing brain surgery without Foreman's supervision or knowledge."

That must have been Foreman's real complaint. He lost out on a surgery. As long as he reports on House's activities, House won't invite him to the cool kid parties. House slighted Foreman's professional dignity and now Cuddy has to yell. "He had no right to tell you."

"No, he had a responsibility, House! That's his job."

Foreman ratted him out because that's all it is. His job.

House stops paging Foreman. And Foreman stops showing up.

***

House is tired of having nowhere to go. He takes Chase bowling and Chase throws perfect strikes and baits his interest with intriguing things he's cut out of body cavities. House grunts in reply until the game's over and he can walk away without a chance of Chase following him.

He tries to watch baseball with Cameron, bringing beer to prove he's welcome in her living room. She sits in prim silence, legs crossed, hands on her knees, so tense that her back doesn't touch the couch. She's _tentative_, like he's a wild animal in an unreliable cage. House can't focus on the game because he keeps hearing the short, in-drawn breaths she takes right before she reminds herself to shut up. House rolls his eyes, but doesn't tell her to let it go in one spewing avalanche--all her _concern_, all her fucking pity.

To escape, House invites Cuddy to dinner. She uses her baby as an excuse to let him down easy. Sleeping with her has to be easier. But Cuddy wouldn't know how not to be guilty the morning after, and House wouldn't know how to keep her. She has more important things to go home to.

House does his clinic hours because so far, at least, mocking idiots occupies his attention, even if their injuries and diseases don't. Monster trucks are boring. General Hospital is boring. Playing with his fellows' social lives is boring. House drives until the bike's engine falls silent between his knees and rolls to a stop, using the back brake as little as possible to save his leg. He has to kick it over to the reserve tank and pull in to the closest gas station in order to make it home.

He buys a six-pack and the most neon-orange chips he can find and shows up at Foreman's apartment. He tailgates his way in behind a woman carrying groceries and takes the elevator to the fourth floor. Foreman opens the door at his knock. House pushes Foreman's arm out of his way and passes within shoving distance as he worms his way through the door. He doesn't miss the slight tilt of Foreman's chin that says House has hit a nerve even before he worked his way in.

His lungs contract once he's inside. He feels cyanotic, as if he's reached the summit of a mountain he didn't know he was climbing and turned acrophobic at the top. "Turn your television on, Foreman. The game's on."

Foreman follows him. Turns on the game. Pops open a beer. And starts bashing on the Mets.

House has no idea what to _do_ with him.

He comes back again, testing a theory the way he'd test a sore tooth--by poking at it, wriggling it, never once leaving it alone. He sees Foreman in the cafeteria and instead of disappearing back up to his office--it's too far to carry his tray anyway--he sits down across from him. He rides his bike through the city as if it can make him forget his leg, and finds himself outside of Foreman's apartment. The lock gives way under a few judicious whacks with a screwdriver. He leaves the door swinging open and looks for beer in Foreman's fridge. Condo living at its finest.

Foreman shows up a few hours later, framed in the doorway, his polished shoes crunching the splinters from the woodwork around the deadbolt. "House, what the hell did you do to my lock?"

"Complaint department's closed," House says, eyes trained on the TV. Foreman has no sense of timing. House can't argue _and_ watch Paris Hilton milk a cow.

And Foreman _accepts_ it. Sits _down_. Maybe that white matter biopsy took until now to manifest as brain damage. Maybe he's pitying House, but if he is, House can't tell--it doesn't _show_.

A few days later, in the cafeteria, House plants himself across from Foreman again and starts aggressively attacking his taste in music.

"House," Foreman says, picking up a fry, and House freezes. This is it: Foreman will ruin it. He'll ask if they're _friends_ now, or tell House to fuck off, or say any of a million wrong things.

House will be free. He won't have to think about Foreman anymore. This is what he wants. To have Foreman figured out, categorized, stuffed back in his box where he belongs. House will be bored again, but who cares about that? Waiting for an axe to fall isn't boring.

"When I interned I had this chief resident who thought it was cool to take the whole group out for tacos post-call." Foreman fixes him with an ironic glance, as if House could miss who's who in this touching anecdote. "We were all just itching to stop pretending to laugh at his horrible jokes and go home to catch a few hours' sleep."

House blinks. His heart--_stupidly_\--is beating faster than it should, and he can't stop staring at Foreman. "Is that some kind of a hint?"

"No," Foreman says. There's almost a smirk on his face, and no trace of condescension.

House stops listening after that, because it's all he needs to know.

***

Foreman, that bastard, has a girlfriend.

House can tell. There's a smirk on Foreman's face every morning that means he's getting some. He's letting House's insults slide off him as if his job isn't his first and only priority. He starts delegating the weekend pager to Kutner, who's single, and Taub, who might as well be--he's sleeping on his couch these days just for telling his wife that he couldn't keep it in his pants.

Foreman probably doesn't think of her--whoever she is--as his _girlfriend_. He probably thinks "casual affair" or, worse, "significant other". Or maybe it's simply fucking and Foreman has every reason to act smug.

It's the smirk that annoys House. Or interests him; he can't quite decide. Whichever, it's out of place, and House keeps running up against it and feeling his frustration rising each time. He'd have a better chance of mocking Foreman if he knew who the girlfriend was. House goes hunting for clues.

Foreman's worked for him long enough that the password protection on his laptop and his phone are both better than average, probably with a few random capitals and symbols thrown in. His hospital locker, though, has the same sucky combo locks as all the others. With a slam of his fist and then a jiggle, House has it open. He's rooting through Foreman's stuff when a woman walks into the locker room, glances over him, and says, "That's Eric's locker."

Bingo. House has to grin. Half of him was hoping for a long, drawn out investigation, but sometimes it's just too easy. "He asked me to get something for him," he says, pulling on his most friendly expression. "And you are?"

Olivia's been at the hospital a few months. She's a radiologist. She has two sisters and a brother, a dog named Muffin, and she thinks Eric is wonderful. House nods along, offering up a few tidbits about _Eric's_ work, and one very civil conversation later, House has all but gleefully asked her up to Diagnostics for coffee, timing her entrance for some moment when Foreman's at his most pompous.

House brings a stethoscope from Foreman's locker up to the conference room and drops it on the table in front of him. "You're welcome," he says, in a manic good mood. It's not an emergency yet; Foreman hasn't been late for work once yet. It's not _personal_. Foreman's blowing off steam. Olivia loves nice restaurants and long walks and rainstorms and kittens. Foreman has her convinced he's the perfect gentleman. In bed, House would bet, Foreman always makes sure she comes first, and gets off on it when she calls his name or moans under his touch. The truth is, he has the same pattern with women that House always hated in Wilson. Caring for now. Available--up to a point. When Olivia finds that out, Foreman will dump her because they _just don't want the same things_.

Fucker.

They solve the case, and that means there's no one House can tell to stay at the hospital later than he does, just so that he can go home and watch the resignation on their faces while they start another pot of coffee. Instead he wakes up from a nap he didn't mean to take and the office is already dark. He scrubs his face and glances out the balcony door before he remembers there won't be a light on in the other office.

House pulls on his wool coat and shuffles out into the hall, groggy from too much sleep, hip sore from sitting upright too long in his Eames chair. He makes it to his car and realizes that the beer in his fridge at home is boring, there won't be anything on TV, and the idea of another night's take out makes him want to barf.

The bar House picks is loud and crowded. House hugs the bar and throws back a bourbon before sipping at a second. Foreman's probably on a date with his radiologist. The two of them and an ostentatious bottle of wine. She lifts a bite of her poached salmon for Foreman to taste. He covers her hand on the table and smiles warmly at her over the dessert he asked the restaurant to prepare specially. They make out beside Foreman's car before they go back to his place to have meaningful sex. House gestures for the bartender to keep the drinks coming. There are plenty of explosions in whatever's showing on the bar TV, so House isn't forced to meet his own eyes in the mirror behind the liquor bottles.

Later, he stumbles when he climbs down from the bar stool to go to the bathroom and piss. He's pissed. House snorts a laugh. Number one on his speed dial gives him a click and a robot operator telling him _the number you have dialed is no longer in use_. That's still better than the day when a stranger's voice will answer. House tries to unprogram the number from his phone but he doesn't remember how. Has another drink while he thinks about it.

Speed dial two. Won't Cuddy be touched to know she's that near and dear to his heart.

"House?"

"I'm drunk," he says. He tries to picture her naked and stay upright at the same time. His dick doesn't even twitch at the thought. God, he's really, really drunk.

There's a sharp voice inside the phone, and when House tunes back in he realizes Cuddy's lecturing him. "I can't believe you're calling me. Didn't you learn anything from the last time you pulled this stunt? Did you even think about what happened to--"

House snaps his phone shut. A minute later it vibrates and launches into an electronic version of _Maneater_. She feels guilty. Wants to rescue him. She wishes she'd shut up long enough for House to tell her where he is. He's not going to now. There won't even be a chance to play on how _pathetic_ he and cop a feel. She'd pick him up, and she'd spend the ride back to his place spitting words at him that he's already heard. He repeats them so often that their rhythm matches the pain flaring in his leg. Always worse when he forgets them and simply tries to live.

House opens his phone again. The buttons waver before he manages Foreman's number. Interrupting his hot date with a radiologist. There's a joke in there, something about full-body scans, but when House thinks about it he remembers he told the same joke to Wilson about Amber. Foreman wouldn't even have to pretend not to laugh.

"Don't bother coming here to pick me up!" he yells into the phone. Foreman's the one who ruined his night, with his happy so-called relationship, so he'll ruin Foreman's. "I've only forgotten where I live and how to get there!"

Prank call. That's what he'll tell Foreman it was tomorrow. House doesn't let his team see him like this. He'll order Kutner to bring him chips; he'll leer at Thirteen when she comes in with a headache as bad as his, probably from the sort of self-destruction that's actually fun; he'll insult Taub until he gets a real reaction. By now they expect his shit. Foreman doesn't care, anyway, so House will get a taxi after a few more drinks.

Except Foreman shows up. He feels House up for his wallet, tossing his cash on the bar. House tries to wrench away from him, sweat breaking out under his arms, his heart thudding too fast. Foreman can't get close like this, without permission, _touch_ House like this when he might react.

"Is this some kind of come-on?" House asks, so quickly the words trip over themselves, wishing he could scramble away. "I'm not easy just because I'm drunk."

Foreman raises an eyebrow, and House can practically read in his face that, yeah, he thinks House is easy when he's drunk, but House isn't good enough for Foreman. He's not a radiologist, he doesn't have smooth skin or big tits or a flirty little laugh, and he'd never moan Foreman's name in bed, so Foreman's not interested.

House follows him out of the bar, questions swimming through his mind. _Why the hell are you here? Why the fuck did you come?_ He doesn't ask. Foreman's not staying. This doesn't mean anything. Just that he'll pour House into his car and drive him home. House hates that he's _grateful_, hates Foreman for understanding what he's supposed to do. Drive, don't talk. Pretend this is normal. Foreman's not supposed to understand. He _doesn't_ understand; he's pissed off at House and wants him out of his life as fast as possible.

He props House up by his apartment door, reaches into his pockets again, says something about keys. "There's one above the _door_," House tries to say--mumbles, maybe. Foreman's stupid enough to think House would keep anything in his right pants pocket and has to dive back into his left. House's dick doesn't react--again--and this time, he can only be glad he's not capable.

Five stumble-steps later, House is on the couch, the cool leather warming under his fever-hot skin. He's nearly asleep when Foreman tosses a blanket over him. His shivers fade, muscles relaxing. He half-listens to the sounds in the apartment. They're the sort of sounds that any other night would keep House frantically, furiously awake, but now only send him to sleep as if they're lullabies. Footsteps in the living room, the kitchen. Fridge opening. The hum of the microwave. Fucking comforting. Fucking _Foreman_.

In the morning, Foreman's gone and so is the Chinese food House was saving for breakfast. It doesn't matter. House is puking too much to eat anyway.

***

Five days later there's a knock at House's door, twenty minutes too early to be the pizza. House squints at it, trying to assess whether it's worth it to get up when he's going to have to get up for the delivery guy in less than half an hour anyway.

"House, let me in. I brought beer."

House blinks and for some idiotic reason he freezes on the couch as if Foreman might pass on by if he's still enough. He never expected Foreman to _show up_, but if he's here--if he's showing anything like the persistence he's been demonstrating recently--then he won't leave, and he's just as likely to break House's deadbolt in revenge for his own front door.

House goes to the door and opens it, frowning forbiddingly through the crack. Foreman holds up the beer, establishing his _bona fides_. "Didn't you have a date planned?" House asks. "Something absurdly romantic?"

"Olivia and I broke up." Foreman's stare is flat, daring House to say anything.

House sneers, refusing to acknowledge the wave of relief that slaps him in the chest like warm surf, knocking the power out of his legs so that he has to lean harder against the doorjamb. "Sounds very mature. Very mutual. She dumped your ass?"

"Sure, House." Foreman's eye-roll is perfunctory at best, without a hint of anger.

House blinks again. If Foreman's that agreeable, then it's not true. He would have been defensive if his girlfriend had really dumped him. "She told you things just weren't working out? The famous Eric Foreman seduction technique wasn't enough anymore? Sounds like you failed again, Foreman. Just can't let your career go for a woman's sake--"

"Yeah, I don't know anyone like that," Foreman says. House breathes easier when his anger starts to show. "Are you going to let me in or not?"

House studies him for a second longer, then nods decisively. He leaves the door and goes back to the couch. He'll make Foreman pay for the pizza when it gets here. Foreman follows him and sits down heavily. His expression is still forbidding, but he wouldn't be here if he didn't expect House to pick at the scab and drive him crazy. "I don't believe you," House says. Foreman doesn't answer, turning on the game instead, but House keeps his attention focused on Foreman's impassive face, waiting to see the crack. "You're coming over here instead of boo-hooing alone into your pillow? Not even trying to go out to a bar for a one-night stand to reinforce your masculinity?"

Foreman's playing at indifference. He directs his commentary at the television. "I don't actually need to have sex with a woman to prove my masculinity, House. I'm just fine with it as it is." He fixes House with a quelling stare. "At least I don't need to stop by an ATM before getting laid."

"Oh, hooker jokes. I've _never_ heard those before. If I said it first, it's not going to hurt my feelings." House narrows his eyes, considering. "You're deflecting. Pretending that you're better than me doesn't work when you're _not_. Making jokes about my lack of commitment means that you can't stand that you're just as--"

Foreman shrugs. "Fine. I broke up with her."

"Aww, and I was just starting to root for you two crazy kids." The puzzle sharpens in front of House and he swallows down the nerves that tighten in his stomach. This isn't about Foreman's girlfriend. This is about the reason Foreman keeps showing up. House's heart thumps a bit harder. He's finally going to unravel all the damn threads and figure Foreman out. This will be done, finished, and he'll find someone else to bait and badger, someone else who'll tolerate him. There's got to be someone else. "What, did she say _I love you_ and you didn't say it back fast enough? Realize you can't feel something and cover your ass at the same time?"

Foreman's bland in his anger, mellow in it. That's a clue, too, the way he's allowing House's inquisition. Testing his own patience? Testing how much he's able to stand being around House? Or still looking for someone he can patronize? "Don't think you're in any position to condescend emotionally to me, House."

House's chest burns, and he glares at Foreman, but he doesn't shift. Foreman has no clue about what House _feels_. He loved Stacy; lived with her for five years, and he doubts Foreman's had a relationship that lasted longer than five _months_. "I don't need to. The second anyone wants something real from you, you run away." House can practically hear Foreman's speech as he's unwrapping her adoring arms from around his neck, shaking his head and smiling his asshole smile. _We're different people. We want different things._ House _is_ better than Foreman. He knows what he feels and even if he doesn't say it--there were plenty of times he never said it--it was always _there_. "At least I'm not fucking hiding."

Foreman looks at him, one eyebrow raised sardonically, and House shuts his mouth so fast there's nearly a snap. Foreman's not blind, and he's been around more than anyone else for the past few months. Just because he's never said a word doesn't mean he's a moron. House clenches his teeth and turns back to the TV, flipping through channels too fast to see what's on, but for once, Foreman doesn't leave it alone. "_You're_ not hiding."

"Shut up, Foreman." House spits the words out. There should be something more he can say, insults at the very least that he can reach for. An avalanche of words that will put Foreman in his place or bury him. That would shut his fucking mouth.

"No. You're accusing me of playing it safe? Where have you been for the past _year_, House? Because it's been nearly that long." Foreman twists on the couch to face him. They're having this argument in House's apartment, where he can't get away from it, where Foreman is less than two feet away from him. Maybe contempt is worse than pity, when it comes from Foreman. "At least I'm trying."

House bites down on the words _What do you think this is, you bastard?_ "You're _here_," he snaps, and Foreman's eyes widen. As if he's only just realized what this is. Foreman swallows and flicks his eyes back to the television where they should be. He shuts up, finally, his mouth pressed into a silent line.

House bangs the cap off a beer on the edge of the coffee table and stares at the game, drinking because it occupies his hands and his mouth. The announcers babble into the heavy quiet, and House forces himself to brood on the Mets' shaky bullpen instead of wondering whether Foreman's right.

House isn't hiding. The more Foreman comes over, the more the comparisons fade. When House wants to go somewhere, he calls Foreman. When there's a game, or he needs to pick up some beer, or he's just at a loss when a case is done, he badgers Foreman into feeding him. When he looks across a restaurant booth, he's almost not surprised when it's Foreman's face on the other side. From the passenger seat of Foreman's car, House watches Princeton pass outside his window and he's more likely to think of Stacy than Wilson. House doesn't mention all the hole-in-the-wall diners where he went for midnight breakfasts with Wilson, all the bars where House could still lead the way to their table. Foreman doesn't like that kind of place. House adjusts his habits to match, not to accommodate Foreman but because he needs to _not go back_. He never visits his old favourites and never misses them. With Foreman Princeton is a different city, one that overlays the one House shared with Wilson but that muffles the memories.

House is letting this happen. He's coming to rely on Foreman. When he bothers to think about it, it scares the hell out of him. Foreman already left once, and every move he makes proves that he'll leave again. They're different people. They want different things. So House doesn't think, doesn't _think_, and Foreman's the only one who makes that easy.

***

Once the balcony's free of snow and ice, and the weather turns hot and muggy, House expands his repertoire of napping spots. He's always tanned easily, and closing his eyes against the gold-bright sun seems to ease him to sleep faster than the hum of the hospital's air conditioning. He paces through the night at home, but out here, the Adirondack chair supports his leg and he's able to catch up, in twenty- or thirty-minute bouts, to the sleep he can't manage in his own bed.

He's mostly left alone. The minions are all happy to tromp into his office, all of them with downtrodden faces because House was right and they were wrong. But the balcony door offers some protection, as if outside the hospital means outside the hospital's structure and scheduling. Cuddy doesn't track him down out here, which generally adds to his boredom. No cat and mouse games, not even the thrill of saying no and watching her roll her eyes at him. They must all think he's out here _mourning_, or some crap like that. But House ignores the other half of the balcony and stares out over the campus and the parking lot instead. He brings out a pair of binoculars his father gave him when he was a kid. House had wanted a microscope or a telescope--he supposes he's lucky he got something with lenses.

The angle from the balcony is perfect for peeking down Cuddy's cleavage as she crosses the parking lot and dreaming that yeah, it's possible, he could hit that. He's lying to himself. But at least he doesn't have to hunt very far for the reasons or for the truth. It's not comforting at all; it's just another distraction.

He takes out his cell almost before he knows what he's going to do, dialing Foreman's phone. It's a sign of how far gone he is that he knows Foreman's number by muscle memory. "I'm on the balcony," he says. He rubs his fingers and thumb over his closed eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can hear the exhaustion in his own voice, all the effort he's devoting to _not giving a shit_. "Get up here."

As usual, it doesn't take long before Foreman appears from doing House's shift in the clinic. The timing is perfect; House knows Cuddy's schedule and she'll be walking in from the parking lot any second. House waves Foreman over without looking at him. He wants to remember being twelve years old. He wants that snickering joy at sneaking a peek at any flash of skin at all. He doubts Foreman's felt that--_let_ himself feel that--in the last twenty years. He's had the fun leached out of him and he's nothing now but a spoil-sport, but annoying him is all House really has.

"What do you want?"

House glances over his shoulder, takes in Foreman's frown, his frustration. It's nearly stopped registering by now. If Foreman didn't want to be here then he wouldn't be. He needs to learn to stop _ask_ing. House is throwing all the lessons his way that he can.

"Are you serious?" House holds up the binoculars, evidence of a foolproof plan. "Cuddy's cleavage looks like the Grand Canyon through these babies. You want a look?"

Foreman shakes his head. Christ, at least Wilson knew how to have fun. That thought sends a burn of anger to the pit of House's stomach. He fucking hates Foreman. Hates him for being here, for showing up _again_. For being so fucking unflappable. He pushes it down, but it flashes up again when Foreman looks at him like he's a mild irritation to be _endured_, like a mosquito Foreman's too magnanimous to swat. "House. What do you want?"

The view through the binoculars is as crisp as if House is standing a foot away from Cuddy. He spins the focus knob and dissolves the image. Who fucking needs it. "Duh, Foreman. I want to perv on Cuddy."

"No," Foreman says. He's oh so casual, stepping out onto House's balcony and leaning his hands on the railing, following House's glance down to the parking lot, but so above it all. So fucking full of himself. "What do you want from me?"

Cuddy's nearly reached the doors. House zooms in, zooms out, until she's abstract art, a distant blend of lights. It wasn't like he was ever going to get off on that. It's not even that he wanted to--he only _wanted_ to want it. To feel desire surge up so strongly that he can't deny it. Not even this stupid adolescent lust, not to get a hard-on that, at this point, is a probability nearly as distant as _want_ itself; just that feeling that there's something worth waking up for every morning, that there's a fucking _reason_ to come out on this balcony or play another game of torture-the-fellow.

Fucking pointless. House limps inside and drops the binoculars to the top of his desk. The heat outside gives way to the hospital's dry, tight air. Everything constricts. House is the center of a dead star, the weight of too many worlds compressing him down to nothing. What he wants from Foreman is a _reaction_, a fucking sign that either of them is still alive, still able to get angry. "Sex," he says. If Foreman ever heard anything outside his own pathetic expectations, that might be a risk to say. As it is, if he freaks out, House will shoot him down for thinking he's ever serious. "I thought that much was obvious."

"No," Foreman says, sharp and short. "I think you think I can replace Wilson."

Fury freezes House to the spot, bursts through him with a sudden hot desperation. Without warning the words slam out. "No," he snaps, his voice grating in his throat. "Wilson was a selfish prick. And so are you."

Foreman's eyes widen, until for once in his life he looks uncertain. Maybe finally he gets that no matter how self-satisfied he acts he doesn't have anything close to the answer. "What about you, House? What about all the screwing you do with people?"

House bulls forward until he's in Foreman's face. "You think you're insightful, don't you?" Foreman kept his mouth shut for months and _now_ he brings Wilson up? Throws him in House's face like he hasn't lived with this every _second_ since the crash? "Ever considered how cliché it is to go into neurology just because your mom was getting a little soft in the head? Don't think for a minute that you've got anything to teach me, Foreman. Wilson condescended to me for fifteen years. You're small time compared to him."

"House!" Foreman stares at House like he's lost it. "I'm not Wilson!"

Every muscle in House's body knots. Anger tastes hot in the back of his throat. The handle of his cane bites into his palm, his other hand fists so tight that he can _see_ the punch that will smash through Foreman's jaw. "No," House says. "At least Wilson knew he was a self-satisfied asshole." Foreman's not Wilson. He will _never_ be Wilson. And the fact that he even _assumes_ that House thinks that, or wants that, shows that Foreman has no _fucking_ clue. House twists away from Foreman and stalks out the door.

Foreman follows him. House can hear his steps, his words following him down the hall. "So, what? Are we going to keep doing this? You're going to keep pissing me off? Keep testing my patience?"

_His_ patience. _Foreman's_ patience. House could have shown him a thousand times over what living with him is really about. Wilson was actually there, actually _saw_ him. Wilson knew everything and he was House's best _fucking_ friend and he _left_.

Halfway to the elevator House wheels around to face Foreman. Once, when he was ten, House swam out into the ocean past his depth, and got caught in the riptide. He fought it, swimming for the shore with thrashing, uncoordinated strength. A wave slapped him in the face and he panicked. He feels like that now. Exhausted, frantic, his throat and chest burning like he's just gulped a breath of salt water. "Wilson's dead, Foreman. Don't fucking push me. I'm going home."

***

When the case is over--when every case is over--House wakes up certain that he'll open his eyes to cracked ceiling tiles, shift his weight and chafe against over-starched sheets and an over-bleached hospital issue gown, turn his head and fall into a white vertigo arcing behind his eyes.

For months the migraines crept up on him like sly bottom-feeders. House didn't have the strength to fight them off, and they slipped past his defenses in long, queasy flares of pain. House sweated them out, puking up the electrolyte-enriched drinks he'd forced down, living more on narcotics than food. He kept his bedroom dark, his eyes covered, and let them come. The ache drilling into his temples surged when he moved to take the weight off his leg, so much that it stopped him from thinking, and that was all House asked for.

Waking up means remembering Cuddy leaning over his hospital bed. Nice view if House had gone to the effort of turning his head. Instead he counts the tiles in the ceiling. The total is always ninety-two, but House would rather start over and hope for a difference than listen to Cuddy's tear-roughened voice. She clasps his hand between hers. House's is cold and clammy; hers, too warm. House's arm feels heavy and distant. Not his to move, and so not his to pull away.

"House, I'm sorry. So sorry. I..."

House loses count at seventy-eight and drags his eyes back to the beginning.

"...know how much he meant to you. But it's been less than thirty-six hours since the surgery... With the skull fracture..."

House supposes there were times when he respected Cuddy as a doctor. When she's hollow-eyed, hair straggling out of a hasty clip at the back of her neck, her heels discarded at his bedside, she's not speaking as a doctor. She's trying to be his friend.

Good luck with that.

"I can't let you leave. I'm sorry."

Cuddy leaves him to the non-existent mercies of a watch-dog nurse. She should know better. The hospital is busy, the nurse has a dozen other patients. It's not long before she turns her back. It takes House longer than he'd hoped to push himself up and maneuver his legs over the side of the bed. But he learned the rules of moving in pain years ago. There's an itinerary for any route longer than two steps. Contingency plans for anything as monstrous as ten. Places to lean, benches he can use as rest stops. How to collapse without looking like a pathetic cripple. His cane is still hooked over the visitor chair, and that's as much of an invitation to leave as House needs.

It's not his pride that keeps him moving. But once he's in motion, stopping hurts nearly as much, and he can't think to form a different plan. Nausea churns in his stomach. He makes it to the locker room and pukes in one of the showers. Leaves it for someone else to clean up.

There's a wrinkled, musty suit in his locker. House sits on the bench, curling over his leg, grinding his teeth against the dull thud of distant artillery that pounds against the thin bone of his skull. It's already cracked, and it feels like something inside wants to burst out entirely. Sweat soaks House's shirt long before he manages to drag the pants and suit jacket on. He finds his wallet in the inner pocket, with enough cash to get him through the day. It's enough, but it's only because he can't imagine turning back that he forces his steps towards the hospital doors.

It's spring, the perfect day. Sunshine stabs his eyes. He wants to crawl into a hole and lie there panting, but instead he calls a taxi and falls into it when it arrives. The synagogue is twenty minutes away and House spends them in a half-dozing haze. The cabbie gets a twenty, which at least prompts him to get out and open House's door. He levers his way out of the car and up the synagogue steps, shoulder burning each time he forces it to take his full weight.

House stops on the threshold after crossing the vestibule, squinting at the back of too many heads, half of them wearing borrowed yarmulkes. He takes one himself from an usher and pushes himself forward another step. His minions are there, and half the Oncology Department. Probably everyone who could sneak out and ditch work the second they weren't being overseen. Wilson's parents are sitting in the front row, with his brother--the only one left to be "the good one"--and his wife. House squeezes the handle of his cane when he sees Amber with them. Each blonde hair flawlessly in place, blue eyes red-rimmed with the perfect touch of grief, skin pale as shock. The bitch could probably cry on cue. If she turned and saw him, that would end the weepy widow act. House could claim a seat next to Mike Wilson to watch the loathing flood Amber's face. House doesn't know if she'd hold her silence for the Wilsons' sake or give in to the urge to claw his eyes out.

Exhaustion wins over curiosity. House takes a seat halfway back, where the crowd is sparser. Behind the hospital mob, away from the family. The rabbi takes his place, and House knows the observances, but he can't hear them through the rush of blood in his ears. His restless hand finds a bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, and he swallows three without a thought. Time draws out in strange beats. A minute takes an hour, and then suddenly it's over, the prayers and the murmured amens.

House gets to his feet when the service is done, pulling the yarmulke off his head and twisting it in his fist. There was no viewing, no casket, but House doesn't need a waxen reminder. His heart constricts like he's in the middle of a cardiac tamponade. Through the wash of dark spots in his vision, he hobbles outside and follows the sidewalk around the side of the synagogue, where he's half-hidden by a bush covered in obnoxious white blossoms. House stops there. The brick is rough against his shoulder. House lifts a hand to his eyes and presses it there. Pain throbs through his skull, his pulse thumping like radar, outlining a screaming three-dimensional map of the crack in his temporal bone with each beat. His scalp burns along the line of thick black stitches, like a row of wasp stings.

Another taxi takes him home. It's seven steps from his front door to the liquor cabinet, three from there to his couch. The phone's sitting on the coffee table, and even the effort of bending to pick it up nearly cracks him open again.

Kung pao chicken and bourbon make his _seudat havra'ah_. The delivery kid hands the take-out containers over, sullen when House doesn't tip.

There's a button loose on his oxford shirt, the thread dangling. House rips it off, and flicks the button to the floor; it skitters under the coffee table. With one finger, House worries the old, frayed buttonhole until he tears that too.

Soon he's four glasses into the bourbon. The food he barely touches.

"_Yitgaddal veyitqaddash shmeh rabba_," he slurs to the empty apartment. "_Ul'achaya metaya_." Exalted and sanctified is God's great name. He will give life to the dead.

Such a fucking lie.

***

The drive home from his father's funeral was another numb, endless day in Foreman's car. The world drifts past outside House's window. The low murmur of NPR anesthetizes him. Foreman watches the road, grunts when he gets cut off by soccer moms, buys House whatever slurpees and junk he brings to the counter of the convenience stores they stop at.

There's another motel. Foreman falls asleep after reading his last issue of JAMA until one in the morning. House taps the switch and steals the journal. In the semi-darkness, he watches Foreman breathe. Foreman's wearing a t-shirt this time, as if House would ever repeat a prank or as if that thin defense would save Foreman if he did.

House has given fair warning. He asked if Foreman was hinting to be left alone. And Foreman gave him that look, that half-lidded, lazy, better-than-you smile that might have some sort of bizarre affection behind it, and said, "Your beer is better."

It's all the invitation House needs.

After Wilson died, House stole the toys from his office. All the shitty thank-you gifts, all the tschotkes Wilson called stress-relievers and never used, make their way to House's bookshelves and the back corners of his closets. He pushes them aside when he's looking for something else. Fiddles with them on his pacing rounds through the apartment. They're just more clutter, more mess. Wilson couldn't help hanging on to useless junk that no one else would want.

House will never get what he wants. _Wanting_ exhausts him. He won't fall into that trap again. He'll settle for what he can get.

Foreman wants to believe that his life is together. That his ambitions are attainable, that his love life is perfect. Isn't it convenient for him that House is there every day to prove him right? Isn't that what Foreman really hangs around for, chances to lord it over House and his stupid, broken life?

The next morning, Foreman finally pulls up in front of House's apartment. Foreman starts to lean forward to turn off the car, but House is already angling his legs out the door and standing up. He slaps the lid of the trunk and Foreman opens it; House takes his bag and walks inside.

Foreman doesn't react to the dismissal. Yet House finds himself at his front window, twitching back a blind to watch Foreman drive away.

 

_end_


End file.
